


To Breathe Is To Live

by MarleyMortis



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Brief mention of possible suicidal ideation, Cancer Sucks, Casual Use of Marijuana, Grief, M/M, Mourning, Off-screen suicide of a minor character who has cancer, PTSD, Pot Dispensary, Rock climbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 07:31:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12601456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarleyMortis/pseuds/MarleyMortis
Summary: In an effort to escape the memories of his mother's fight with pancreatic cancer and subsequent death, Steve accepts an invitation from his ex-boyfriend, Bruce Banner, to move to Colorado and help run the River Resort.  The motley crew of guests and a part-time employee at a pot dispensary named Bucky help him to stop feeling like a ghost haunting the remnants of his life.





	To Breathe Is To Live

**Author's Note:**

> I went to Colorado over the summer to visit my sister and her boyfriends. It was my first time on a plane and the first time I visited a legal pot dispensary, and my first time seeing Bighorn Sheep that weren't on a television screen, and I've been slowly working on this since then. The area around Estes Park is filled with idyllic places to rent cabins, and the Bear Den and Beaver Den are real businesses (sadly, not gay bars), so I thought it would be the perfect place for a grief-stricken Steve to slowly heal from his mother's death.
> 
> Also, the story about "Paco: Man in Contemplation Smoking Pot" is based off something that happened to me. A couple of friends and I found a carved statue at a camp site while we were camping. I brought it home with me. It's sitting on my back porch.

Steve stepped onto the front porch of his new home, a small cottage perched precariously on a mountainside. It overlooked the Big Thompson River, which was neither big nor easily classed as a river when one had lived within spitting distance of the Hudson. The Big T, by comparison, was more of a stream until spring when melting snow from the Rockies swelled it into a kayaker's dream.

Below him sprawled a dozen rustic cabins with green, clapboard siding and brown shutters. They were the backbone of The River Retreat, and according to his new business partner and long-time-ex-boyfriend, Bruce, each cabin was booked solid for the next six months. Said cabins were also the reason for him spending his morning sipping steaming coffee and choking on clean, mountain air.

Technically, Bruce owned the small resort. Also technically, Bruce was up to his eyeballs in new parenthood and found himself fulfilling the role of a stay-at-home dad while his wife, Betty, spent weekdays heading up the science department at the University of Denver. Technically-Number-Three, Steve had been desperate enough to get out of New York and away from all the memories it held that answering the plea of his long-time-ex-lover-turned-friend for help running the River Retreat was a decision he hadn't spent nearly enough time making.

Coffee wasn't doing much to erase the phantom taste of antiseptics from his tongue, and he was grateful when the patio door slid open and allowed Bruce to step outside, three-month-old son fussing against his shoulder and salt-and-pepper hair sticking up in wild curls.

Steve resisted the urge to thread fingers through those curls the way he had when they'd dated, when Bruce'd had tenure in the science department of NYU and Steve had been an impressionable arts student who'd found himself in an illicit affair with his biology professor. Instead, he swallowed the dregs of his coffee and placed the empty mug on the railing.

“Coffee needs to be started in the lobby,” Bruce said, “and it's time to set up for breakfast. Miles should be here soon with our usual bakery order, but you should get the scrambled eggs and bacon on the buffet warmers soon. Then we prep housekeeping to turn the cabins for today's arrivals.”

“Not even gonna give me a day to settle in, huh?”

“Best to just hit the ground running. Besides...” Bruce made a vague gesture to Newton, who chose that moment to bellow his unhappiness with the world while gumming at a teething ring.

“Right. You deal with the baby. I'll deal with the breakfast.”

*

Breakfast was a nightmare. Families with small children flooded into the lobby, which was the entire first floor of River Retreat's main cabin and the place where, just two stories up, Steve laid his head at night. They were hungry, eager to get their day of sight seeing started, and knew absolutely nothing about cleaning up after themselves. Like they were staying in some five star, full service hotel. And invariably, their guests wanted the one thing the buffet was running low on.

So he spent most of his morning explaining “No, ma'am, we just ran out of eggs. It'll be fifteen minutes before another batch is ready,” and biting his tongue to prevent himself from spewing “What do you want me to do? Magically pull a fresh batch outta my ass? Wait your turn like every other putz in this joint.” Between dealing with entitled Soccer Moms and Football Dads and listening to the screech of young children climbing on shit they shouldn't be climbing on, Steve was more than ready to transfer to housekeeping. Or so he told himself.

Bruce, who spent the morning manning the front desk, presented him with a list of outgoings, and he hurried to their maintenance building where laundry was located. Miles Morales, their only employee, met him there so they could divvy up the cabins waiting to be readied for their arrivals.

Cleaning, as it turned out, gave him too much time to think. It was a mindless chore. _Strip the sheets. Put on fresh sheets. Make the bed. Vacuum the carpet. Sweep the hardwood floors. Wipe down the counters. Ew. Pick the pubic hair from the shower drain. And why couldn't John Doe rinse his own face bristles down the sink? Was that a bloody tampon behind the toilet? That was a bloody tampon behind the toilet. Alcohol, aisle one._

He paused to stretch his back and was hit with a wave of chemical smell from the cleaner. The burn of it in his nostrils sent him spiraling. He became caught in a loop, hyper-aware of his surroundings in the event Ma needed him in the bedroom. Invariably, he sat down with his homework spread on the coffee table only for the jangle of her bell to interrupt him, to send him shooting to his feet and rushing into the back bedroom to ease her onto her side to prevent her choking on her own vomit.

Someone knocked on the open cabin door.

“Mr. Rogers?”

Steve jumped. He turned to spy Miles peering inside.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just finishing up here.”

*

New arrivals started trickling in at around one, so he booked it back to the main office to watch Bruce go through check-in. They didn't have anything fancy like the big chain hotels. No computers to keep track of their guests, just a tin box filled with cards that contained the pertinent information. Name, address, payment method, drivers' license number.

The woman checking in was foreign, Russian by her rich accent. She scrawled Natalia Romanova on her card and was accompanied by a dish-water blond named Clint Barton. Bruce assigned them Cabin Four, which was quaintly named Baloo, since Bruce had this whole bear theme going on.

“What brings you to the River Retreat?” asked Bruce.

“Hunting,” the woman responded.

“Bow hunting,” corrected Clint.

“Got your hunting licenses and all your papers?”

“Yes.” Natalia's glance fell on Steve.

He got the odd sense she saw more than surface level when it came to people and found himself becoming increasingly uncomfortable beneath that steely gaze. He shifted his weight but refused to be the first to look away. Ultimately, it was Newton who ended the stand-off.

The baby shrieked, prompting Bruce to rush over to his son and leaving Steve to finish up their paperwork. He passed their cabin keys across the counter and tucked their admission card into the tin.

“Have a pleasant stay here at River Retreat.”

A tiny smile quirked the woman's lips as she accepted the keys. Like she knew how uncomfortable her continued attention made him and was pleased. Clint, though, seemed thoroughly oblivious to the undercurrent. Rather, he shifted the bag slung across his shoulder and tugged on the leash clipped to the harness of a one-eyed golden retriever.

The jingle of the dog's collar made Steve shudder. Muscle memory made him move before he even realized he was heading for the hallway leading into the back of the cabin. The corridor was dark. A gust of wind scurried down its length, making it feel like that hallway breathed puffs of warm air.

Logically, he knew it led into the back room where a sauna and work-out equipment were located. He knew it. He'd traveled that path the evening before during the grand tour, but it reminded him of a different hallway, a longer hallway that his feet were loathe to tread for fear of what he would find when he reached the room at the end.

Steve froze mid-step upon realizing the jingle wasn't Ma's cherub bell. Air became stagnate in his lungs. He forgot how to breathe. Dread weighted the pit of his stomach with lead. His palms dampened with sweat. That hallway. He couldn't. He didn't want to. Nothing could make him.

“Steve!”

He snapped to attention, turning to find Bruce looking at him with concern, Newton resting in a sling draped across the other man's chest. Upon realizing people were waiting to check in, he darted back behind the counter to get their information. Every now and then, his glance turned toward the hall.

*

The Big Thompson ran parallel to Route 34, cutting a swath through the Rocky Mountains and carrying traffic straight into Estes Park, Colorado. To get there, tourists had to pass the Bear Den (sadly, not a gay bar) and the Beaver Den (sadly, not a lesbian bar). The town of Estes Park was quaint but, like most scenic destinations, had fallen victim to the tourist industry.

The main drag was populated with numerous candy and ice cream stores, boutiques filled with kitschy knick-knacks designed to take up space, and businesses billing themselves as selling “authentic” Indian merchandise that was actually made in China. Seriously, if one more person decided to open a candy store in Estes Park, he was quite certain the whole town would slip into a diabetic coma.

It wasn't all bad, though. Steve had time on his hands after five, when most of their new arrivals had already arrived and the cabins were all in tip-top shape, so he mounted his Harley and drove into town to explore. Might as well get used to his new environment. The fact that traffic flowed smoothly put a smile on his face. It was vastly different from Manhattan traffic.

He parked in one of the designated lots and spent a couple hours meandering, getting lost in small alleys that led to the lesser-advertised shops. Sometimes, the alleys let out near the river where benches invited the weary shopper to relax and watch the Big T meander along its banks or take in a statue of a crouching mountain lion.

Down Elkhorn Avenue, he found a rustic-looking shop called the Inkwell & Brew and stepped inside. He was immediately assailed by the rich scent of coffee and wood. Charmed, he spent a good hour getting lost in the various displays, pausing to consider the texture of their hand-pressed paper and peruse the various nibs available for their pen and ink sets. In the end, he grabbed a coffee, purchased some paper and pens, and went upstairs into their sitting area to relax.

It was a slow evening, and he didn't realize how lost he became in his sketching until someone announced the store would be closing in ten minutes. He sat back. Looked at the bold, black strokes carving the thick paper he'd chosen. Her face looked back at him, cheeks gaunt, eyes sunken like someone trapped halfway between living and dead.

A tiny sound of distress slipped his control, and he crumpled the paper and shot to his feet. The wadded ball went flying. Wound up half-way across the room where someone in ratty flannel stooped to retrieve it. Rather than dumping it in the trash, the guy smoothed the paper out to look at it, and Steve became aware his entire body thrummed with equal parts dread and horror.

“Handsome lady,” the guy said. “Seems a shame to toss her in the trash.”

Wordlessly, he forced his gaze from the floor. The guy looked extraordinary, strong face framed with rich, chestnut hair that had been pulled back into a bun. Tendrils had come loose and snaked along either side of his face. Laugh lines etched his eyes and mouth, and a dimple marred his chin.

Any instant attraction, though, was drowned out by the horror of having someone else look at her. The invasion of privacy blared sirens in his mind, and he hurried forward to snatch the paper from the guy's hands. “This is private,” he snapped.

The guy lifted two hands aloft in surrender.

Silence crackled between them.

The stranger asked, “You okay? You don't look so hot.” The guy curled his lips between his teeth before correcting himself, “You look like you're gonna be sick.”

“I'm fine.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Bucky, get your fine ass down here!” a young woman shouted from downstairs. “The milk frother's threatening to eat me again.”

Bucky touched two fingers to his brow in a mock salute before skipping downstairs.

Steve gathered his belongings and left, stuffing pens, ink, and sketching paper into the saddlebags across his Harley so he could get the fuck out of Estes Park and away from the guy he'd accidentally let into his inner life.

*

“Coming,” Steve murmured, voice rough with sleep.

Pushing back the covers, he rolled out of bed and sat on the edge long enough to rub sleep from his eyes. Then, he stumbled across the room toward the door only to remember there was no door in that direction any longer. Why? Because he'd moved to Colorado, leaving behind the apartment in Manhattan and all the memories it had contained.

He stopped in his tracks.

Wind chimes hanging outside on the deck tinkled under a soft breeze, and it sounded so much like Ma's bell that his sleep-addled brain must have misinterpreted it. Grief descended anew, a death shroud suffocating him, ensnaring him, separating him from the world of the living.

He choked back a sound of distress and hurried onto the deck where a wave of mountain air cooled the sweat beading his brow and staved off mounting panic. Breathing hurt. It burned his lungs, so he took in shallow breaths until something close to normal returned.

Overhead twinkled a blanket of stars, and he tipped his head back to look into their vastness. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the night sky without the light pollution of New York, but there it was, big and black and filled with pinpricks of light. It overwhelmed him, that endless expanse of space, made him feel small, and he allowed that smallness to ease his tension. Whatever struggles he encountered in life, they were nothing in comparison to the universe.

*

He returned to the deck the following morning, a cup of hot coffee warming his palms. Mist still clung to the valley, the air laden with dew that would likely burn off during the heating of the day. The first sip went down like concrete in his stomach. The second washed away the ash coating his mouth.

By the third, Bruce padded barefoot onto the cedar, hair a mess of curls, eyes bloodshot, and Newton sleeping soundly in a sling draped across his chest. He made grabby hands at Steve's coffee.

Fondness curled low in Steve's belly. He couldn't resist the urge to drag fingers through Bruce's curls in an attempt to make them lay flat; it was a useless endeavor. Always had been. Even during those lazy nights after they'd fucked in front of the fireplace in Bruce's brownstone back in New York. He could remember spending hours trailing his fingers through those curls to no avail.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Bruce murmured, voice sleep-gruff, around the rim of Steve's coffee cup. “I have spit-up on my shirt and haven't bathed in three days.”

“How about I watch Newton while you get a shower?” It left his mouth before he could call it back.

Bruce's eyes lit up. His expression softened, made him look less like a rage monster on the verge of losing his temper and more like a giant teddy bear. “Would you?”

By that point, Steve was a goner. Couldn't back out even if he wanted. Because Bruce was and always would be his weak spot. Didn't matter that the older man's temper had been instrumental in breaking them up. Bruce's soft underbelly made up for that.

Which was how Steve found himself cooking eggs and bacon and racing around like Wyle E Coyote trying to get breakfast on the buffet warmers with an infant strapped across his chest. Newton was not shy about expressing his displeasure with all the activity, a fact Mrs. Porter, who was staying in Winnie the Pooh, didn't fail to remark upon. Something about her own children being better behaved.

It took every ounce of will power not to snap her head off, especially considering he'd witnessed just yesterday her own brats loitering on the bridge that connected the River Retreat to Route 34 and blocking traffic. He'd momentarily considered shoving the eldest over the side into the river. Sometimes he wasn't proud of his predilections.

He was on the verge of yanking his hair out when the guy from yesterday approached. His expression wasn't squirreled up with annoyance but was soft and compassionate, and he thrust out his hands toward Newton. “Gimme.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Lemme have the baby.”

“You don't just walk up to a stranger and ask for their--”

“You are moments away from blowing your cork. Gimme the kid and finish your breakfast service.”

Steve glanced around the interior of the lobby at the people waiting for breakfast service to start, at those who leveled glares in his direction for disrupting the morning's peace and quiet. Finally, he eased Newton from his sling and surrendered the child into Mr. Barton's waiting arms, who settled the baby against his hip and cooed at him. 

Newton hiccuped, stuffed a fist in his mouth, and looked up at Clint with watery eyes.

“Huh,” Steve huffed. “How the fu--”

Clint gave him a harsh look.

Steve finished, “--dge did you do that?”

“Babies are like animals. They can tell when you're freaking out. Is something burning?”

“Shit! The bacon!”

He rushed back to the stove, wound up having to throw out several pieces of burnt bacon while looking over his shoulder every now and then to where Clint had Newton settled on his lap. Natalia, who was busy reading something on her tablet, paused now and then to feed Clint another piece of muffin without turning her attention away from whatever interested her.

Something shifted inside Steve: an insistent yearning buried deep inside beneath the grief and heartache. He wanted what they had. He wanted to be them. Their familiarity with on another. Their casual touches. All the small things that spoke of many years spent loving each other.

That had never been his, and he had never had that, not even with Bruce.

Bruce announced his presence by stealing a piece of bacon. His soulful eyes widened when Steve turned, revealing the empty sling draped across his chest.

“Newton's fine.” Steve directed Bruce's attention toward Clint, Natalia, and Newton at the exact wrong moment. The couple's dog was in the process of licking a broad stripe up the baby's cheek. Granted, Newton seemed delighted with the attention, but Steve couldn't help but cringe and turn a careful glance toward his ex-boyfriend in fear of his reaction.

Bruce was silent. A muscle in his jaw ticked. Then, he snapped, “Serve breakfast.” A half a heart beat passed before he continued, “And stop giving my baby to strangers!”

*

The clothes iron was stuck to the carpet of Paddington Bear. Steve huffed. Crouching, he pried the iron away using the metal spatula from the kitchenette and glanced at the black char left behind.

His fingers itched for a pen and paper to write a scathing letter to Ms. Maria Hill, who'd stayed in the cabin the night before. It would include phrases like “careless twit” and “if it were your house, you would have remembered the iron on the carpet.”

Some tiny part of him tried to speak up and remind him that maybe she'd received an emergency call from family that would explain running out with a hot iron stuck to the carpet, but he couldn't generate much sympathy. Chances were better she was just a thoughtless wreck of a person.

Used to be, Steve believed in the goodness of people. Wasn't so long ago that he gave them the benefit of the doubt. Captain Gullible, Tony used to call him.

That all changed during his mother's painfully brief fight against pancreatic cancer. It changed when doctor after doctor misdiagnosed her or refused to take her complaints seriously just because she was overweight. Everything from her bad hips, caused by a deformity in the structure of the hip bone, to an insidious disease slowly eating away at her insides were blamed on that weight.

After that, he couldn't bring himself to look for the good before the bad. People had let him down in the worst possible way, and it took too much energy, more than he had available, to claw his way from the grief long enough to re-establish his equilibrium.

Scuffing his hands against his jeans, he put the iron on his cart to have it cleaned or thrown out and stopped by the nightstand situated between both beds. A white envelope rested there. Inside, he found a fifty dollar tip and a hand-written note.

_Apologies for the iron. My wife went into early labor. I forgot about leaving the iron on the floor in the excitement of talking her through the delivery. Please charge the damages to my credit card and accept this tip for your troubles._

It was signed Maria Hill.

Steve grudgingly took back all the bad things he'd mentally said about Ms. Hill. A wife going into early labor seemed an appropriate excuse for forgetfulness.

*

Route 34 turned into W. Eisenhower Boulevard in Loveland, Colorado. There was a rash of presidential street names in the area, everything from Garfield and Buchanan Avenues to Van Buren Avenue. Passing the streets, the rumble of his Harley between his legs, made him smile for reasons he wasn't going to analyze. Smiling was rare enough without going all psychological on it.

Eventually, he pulled off onto a side street that ran parallel with the main drag and into a parking lot to get his bearings. Somewhere along the way, he'd gotten turned around and wasn't entirely certain how to get back toward Estes Park, and while the cliché went that men didn't ask for directions, he wasn't too proud to admit when he was lost.

The last thing he expected, though, was to find himself walking into a pot dispensary. Panic gripped him. There toward the end, Ma's pain had become so overwhelming that regular pain medications hadn't helped enough, so he'd resorted to illegally buying pot just to keep her comfortable. Explaining to the police about how he had a mother in hospice for cancer and couldn't stand one more night listening to her sob from the pain hadn't gotten him off the hook. 

Being white had. He was ninety-nine percent certain things would have gone a lot differently if he were anything but a blonde-haired white man.

But the relief in her eyes, the way her body had melted into the comfort of her hospital bed, had been worth anything, even had he endured everything but the slap on the wrist he'd walked away with. Her eyes had glazed over. A smile had blossomed on her expression, and she'd taken his hand to tell him about growing up near a fairy fort in Ireland.

“You okay?”

Steve jolted from the memory and looked up to find a familiar face gazing at him from the other side of the gate. Dark hair pulled into a bun. Kind, blue-gray eyes. A dimple in his chin that looked like the perfect place for Steve to rest his thumb.

“I know you,” he murmured.

“Oh, right!” The guy's face lit up. “The Inkwell and Brew. Hey, man. You know I didn't mean to violate your privacy or anything when I looked at that sketch.”

Steve shrugged in response. He was over the incident.

“You here to buy, or are you just stepping in outta this heat?”

It was pure impulse when he said he was there to buy and handed over his license when prompted.

“Great, man. I'll check your ID again when you complete your purchase, so keep that handy, and come on through the gate.”

He stepped through and walked down the long counter, taking note of its contents. It really hadn't dawned on him there were so many iterations of cannabis. They were selling everything from soda infused with THC to candy-flavored chews, but he wasn't terribly interested in the new and unique ways of ingesting the drug. He craved the familiarity of inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs.

“Hey, I'm Bucky, by the way.”

“What kinda name is Bucky?”

If Bucky took offense, it didn't register on his expression. His smile never wavered. Rather, he responded, “The kind you pick when there's four other Jameses in your kindergarten class and your middle name's Buchanan.”

He snorted, “Like the president?”

“Like the president,” Bucky agreed and capped it off with an exaggerated wink.

“What the Hell is it with this town and presidents?”

“Colorado, man, patriotic capital of the world.”

“I thought that was Texas.”

“Nah, man. Every time you turn around, Texas is threatening to leave the union. What do you call it?”

“Secede?”

“Yeah, that.”

“Didn't finish high school?”

Bucky's humor turned brittle, but he hid the sudden change of attitude behind a false mask of happiness. It was like prosthetic makeup whose edges hadn't been glued carefully enough.

“Shit, I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry.”

“No big deal,” but the open friendliness of earlier was gone. “So what can I get you?”

*

“I'm an asshole,” Steve drawled a half hour later. 

At least he thought it had been a half hour. Time seemed to have gotten away from him the moment Bucky had shown him back into a comfortable room, the keys to Steve's bike currently in a lock-box behind the counter to prevent him from driving while high. It was good. Cautious. And it wasn't like he could get high back at the River Retreat. 

The room was womb-like with a plush carpet pressing comfortably against his back and dark lighting allowing him to sink into a blissed-out haze. His feet were propped on a bean bag in the corner. Soft music that had a distinct Middle Eastern flare spilled from a stereo.

So yeah, it was like being back inside the womb: safe, dark, and nurturing. Or perhaps that was the marijuana talking. Whatever the reason, he didn't want to leave.

“Nah, man.”

“No, I really am. That was a low blow talking about how you must not have finished school.”

“Nah. Well, I mean, yeah, it was a low blow, but when you're right, you're right.”

Steve arched his back and tilted his head to look backward at Bucky, who was sprawled out in a different bean bag, thighs spread comfortably and hair a mess of loose strands around his face.

“You didn't finish high school?”

“Nah. Dropped out to take care of my sister when our ma went AWOL.”

“Your ma left?”

“Yeah, man. Just up and decided she didn't wanna be a parent no more. Woke up one morning, and she was gone. Didn't even leave a note, so I get Bex up and put her on the bus for school. Week later, we ran outta food, and I couldn't make rent and feed us while staying in school.”

“Jesus.”

“Jesus ain't got nothing to do with that hag abandoning us, Stevie.”

“Where's your sister now?”

“State took her. Said a seventeen year old couldn't take care of her the way she outta be taken care of, so they shipped her off to a foster home and put me in a... In one of those homes where other dead-end teens with no families get sent. You know, 'cause I wasn't cute enough or young enough to get a foster family wanting to take me in.”

“Jesus.”

“Nope, just Bucky.”

“You ever hear from her? Your sister, I mean.”

“Not for a long time. Then, outta the blue, I get this letter from CPS saying she wants to get in touch with me, and can they give her my current mailing address. So I says, 'yeah,' and the next thing I know, I'm getting letters on a regular basis.

“God, Stevie, you don't even know. Bex, she's going to Stanford and getting her law degree. Don't know how someone so awesome came outta that hag's womb, but I'm proud, so, so proud. You got no idea. And she's tough as nails and strong. Don't take no shit from nobody. And I'm thinking to myself 'I did that. I helped make someone that awesome,' 'cause I had her by myself for two years before CPS caught onto us.”

“Jesus.”

“Nope, still Bucky.”

“I mean, that's really something, Buck.”

Bucky chuckled and pressed his socked toes into the crown of Steve's head. “Gonna gimme a nickname for my nickname, pal?”

“You know it.”

“What about you? Why're you such an asshole?”

“My ma died of pancreatic cancer.”

“Ah, no. Man, that's rough.”

Steve lifted his head from the floor. Was he lifting his head? It felt kinda weightless. But, he lifted his head and re-lit the joint tucked between his fingers to take another drag. The smoke burned down his throat, filled his lungs, and renewed the haze working through his body.

He offered it to Bucky, who took it.

“Fucking doctors kept misdiagnosing her, you know, because they can't be bothered to do their goddamn jobs. I hate them, Buck. I hate them so bad, and it feels like there's something wrong-sick growing inside me, like there's something black and thick as pitch deep down in my guts, and one day, it's gonna... I don't know. It's gonna explode or something.”

“It's 'cause you're keeping all that hate bottled up inside you, man, and that ain't good for you.”

“Yeah, well, I don't know what else to do with it.” A beat passed. “Hey, why don't you get your GED. I bet you could. You're smart enough.”

“Nah, man, I don't need that kinda validation. GEDs are for people who wanna go to college, and I don't wanna go to college. All that structure? All those professors telling me what to do and making like I'm a failure cause I can't memorize their bullshit? Not to mention the campus politics.

“You know, I got a friend named Peggy. She's British. And awesome. Anyways, she's studying criminal justice, and she's got this dick-wad professor who kept marking her papers lower than they deserved 'cause he says women ain't cut out for police work.”

“That's so wrong,” Steve said.

“Right? Anyways, Peggy, she referred the matter to the department chair, who didn't do jack shit and suggested Peggy should try harder to get along with her male counterparts. You know, like it's her goddamn job to get along with a bunch of misogynistic ass wipes.”

Steve finally took his feet off the bean bag and sat up all proper like. Moving gave him a head rush, but he kinda liked it. “You should introduce Peggy to your sister, and they can sue the shit outta the university for being a misogynistic turd-waffle.”

A bark of laughter escaped Bucky. “Turd-waffle. I like it. I'm gonna use that one.”

Silence lingered between them for a few moments, time in which Steve gazed at Bucky and realized how beautiful he was. Not in the feminine sense that 'beauty' normally connoted but like being kicked in the gut. Bucky was stunning.

“I wanna kiss you so bad right now,” Steve whispered.

“Well then what you doing all the way over there, man?”

*

Steve gasped into Bucky's mouth, allowed him to swallow the low moan that escaped when Bucky tugged his erection, Steve's jeans peeled open just far enough for his dick to comfortably escape the tight confines. He rocked into the touch and moved to mouth along Bucky's jaw, to swipe his tongue against the sensitive spot behind Bucky's ear.

“Like that,” he whispered.

So Bucky did it again, a swift tug followed by his thumb dragging through the moisture beading in the slit of Steve's cockhead, and Steve trembled. He trembled and pressed his face into the crook where Bucky's shoulder met his neck where his gasps became hot and wet. The orgasm that followed was gentle and refreshing. Somehow, he felt clean, wanted.

His hand crawled down Bucky's stomach, exposed at some point when he'd rucked the shirt up beneath Bucky's armpits. The fuck did a guy gotta do to get abs like those? They were carved into marble.

Finally, he filled his palm with the weight and heat of Bucky's incredible cock. The guy was unreasonably thick and long. Like, Bucky had hit the genital jackpot, and he loved the heaviness of it against his palm, couldn't wait to get it in his mouth.

“God, I wanna suck you so bad,” he said against Bucky's skin.

“Well, all right then, pal. Can't say I'm gonna say no to that.”

A Cheshire grin carved Steve's face as he pulled away. He sank to his knees and pressed Bucky's legs wider, swooped forward, and swallowed that delicious cock down as far as he could take it. That wasn't very far. He hadn't sucked dick in ages, and his gag reflex was shit.

He had to settle for wrapping his palm around the shaft and concentrating his efforts on the head, which was flushed with color and blood-hot. Come wasn't delicious. Pre-come wasn't delicious. He didn't understand the men in porn who claimed otherwise. It was salty and bitter, but the taste was worth the heady moan that escaped his lover. It was worth Bucky trembling as he fought to stay still.

Steve didn't want that, though. He wanted rough hands in his hair. He wanted Bucky to fuck his face, to force himself into Steve's throat until he gagged and drooled all over him. So he grasped Bucky's hips and tried to show him, tried to force him into action.

Rough hands did thread into his hair, but they didn't take possession of him. Bucky said, “Nah, man. I don't do that sorta thing. Don't want you to throw up in my lap, and I ain't gonna punish you for your ma's death like you're wanting.”

Ice water flooded his veins. Mouth still full, he glanced up the long planes of Bucky's body to make eye contact and almost jerked away when fingertips grazed the outline of his face. Bucky's eyes softened. He smoothed back locks of Steve's hair.

“You're okay, baby. You don't gotta go on if you don't wanna.”

Suddenly, he felt stripped bare, like all his messed up insides were visible for the first time since Ma got sick. It wasn't a comfortable feeling, but somehow, he still felt safe. No way would Bucky hurt him or use his vulnerability for anything drastic.

He closed his mouth around Bucky's cock and bobbed his head. Both hands slid up those tremendous abs, and Bucky caught them with his own, bringing each fingertip to his lips for a quick kiss. God, it was so fucking tender Steve didn't know what to do with it, just allowed Bucky to stroke him, his palms, the backs of his hands, his forearms.

It wasn't about chasing the orgasm anymore. It was about the connection, the vulnerability, opening himself to someone for the first time since his ma's death, and by the time Bucky shuddered, by the time he came in hot sports that scalded Steve's mouth, Steve thought he was half-in-love.

*

Because Steve was an asshole, he didn't call Bucky afterward, didn't try to keep in contact, deliberately went out of his way to avoid the dispensary or the Inkwell and Brew so as to not accidentally run into him. It was a big area, after all. The chances of them seeing each other again were minimal.

He told himself it was better that way. Bucky wouldn't get hurt, and Steve would eventually hurt him if they became friends, if they became more than friends. But the real reason, he knew, was because he didn't deserve nice things. He didn't deserve to feel good when his ma was cold in the ground.

So he worked at the River Resort. He cooked breakfast, checked people in, cleaned cabins, and allowed himself to sink into the cocoon of anger and grief that had become so comfortable in the months after the funeral. He stopped going out to explore his new home. His Harley sat in Bruce's garage covered by a tarp. His pencils and paper went unused.

And time passed. Spring bled into summer, which was their busiest season, and summer bled into fall. Traffic through Route 34 trickled off as tourists flocked to warmer destinations for the winter.

So it was something of a surprise when the bell on the front door jangled, causing Steve to look up from the book containing that week's arrivals. An Indian man stepped inside dragging an impressive suitcase behind him. He was on the phone when he entered, but upon seeing Steve behind the counter, he ended the call and offered a tremendous smile.

“Welcome to River Retreat. What can I do for you?”

“Do you have room for me? I don't have a reservation.”

In the spring and summer, he would have been forced to turn the man away, but they had several cabins unoccupied at present, so Steve said, “Sure. We have plenty of room for you. If you'll just fill out this card, and let me see your identification, we'll get you settled.”

He accepted the pen to start the process.

“You're a lefty, too,” Steve mentioned.

“Much to my mother's dismay.”

“How do you mean?”

“In India, it is inauspicious to use the left hand. My poor mother tried to convince the village elders I wasn't unlucky and wouldn't be unsuccessful. The lessons did not take, so there I was, small and meek, being judged by my peers for having a natural inclination for the left hand.”

“That is--” Actually, he wasn't sure what to say. Calling the man's relatives backward and idiotic probably wouldn't go over well. “Welcome to Colorado, where it doesn't matter which hand you write with or what color your skin is?”

The man, Dopinder by the information he'd filled in on the card, laughed. “Actually, I wondered if you had a car service available? Mine broke down. It'll be a few days before it's repaired, but I'm supposed to interrupt the wedding of the lovely Gita and declare my undying love for her before she marries my cousin, the diabolical Bandhu.”

“We don't normally do that sort of thing, but I'll see if we can get a rental company to drive something out for you?”

“If you would, please. That would be remarkably helpful, as Gita is the love of my life, and the thought of her marrying Bandhu leaves me sorely distressed.”

Steve grabbed the keys to Yogi Bear while waiting for Dopinder's card to clear, and when the information was processed, he handed it over. “When's the wedding?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I'll see if we can arrange something. Have a great night!”

His incredibly fake enthusiasm trickled into non-existence as soon as Dopinder left the main office. What was it with all the love in the air recently? It left him feeling hollow and just a little sick. Maybe even envious, a quiet yearning buried deep in his guts that became more insistent by the week. That yearning told him it was time to move on. It said he needed to start living again.

It was wrong.

His attention returned to that dark hallway leading into the gym, and immediately, his sense of dread returned. He knew what awaited him at the other end. Not the gym. Nothing so innocuous.

Closing his eyes, he allowed his feet to follow the path in his memories, the treads of his boots quieted by the beige carpeting beneath his feet. His ride had been refreshing, but really, he hadn't meant to get back so late. It was just that he'd run into Sharon, a woman he dated occasionally. They'd spent the evening at a bar getting reacquainted before heading back to her place where they'd had sex.

_“Ma, you up?” said the phantom remnants of his voice._

_No response._

_His heart twisted uncomfortably, and he picked up speed, but every step forward felt like an eternity, every breath leaving him more winded than before. The hallway was dark the way he'd left it. The gloom cast shadows along white walls._

_He paused with his hand on her bedroom door. It was closed. He never closed the door, always left it ajar in the event she needed him in the middle of the night. Who had closed the door? When had the door been closed? What if he hadn't heard her?_

_Thundering hooves smashed a rat-a-tat against his ribcage as he flung the door open and surged inside. Ma was still. He didn't realize anything was wrong until he realized what was missing. The quiet whir of her oxygen machine no longer swirled the stillness of the atmosphere. Her oxygen machine should be on. Why wasn't her oxygen machine on?_

_Light illuminated the bedroom when he flicked the switch, and that was when he realized, that was when he saw the whites of her eyes, the cloudy glaze as they stared up at the ceiling. Both hands were folded across her stomach, her rosary clutched in her hands._

_“Ma! Oh, God, Ma!”_

_It was only afterward, in the hollow nothingness that he overheard the paramedics talking about seeing the same situation often in hospice cases._

_“What?” he croaked._

_“Her oxygen machine didn't fail. It was turned off.”_

_Next thing he knew, there were police inside. A sea of black ants and silver badges taking him to the station for questioning, locking him in an interrogation room, Officer Wilson bringing him coffee and trying to be that understanding cop that got him to spill his guts. Officer Rumlow slipping easily into the role of “bad cop.”_

_“Did you turn off her oxygen machine, Mr. Rogers?”_

_“Where were you while your mother was suffocating?”_

_“It's understandable, you know, becoming exhausted from being a caretaker to a terminal patient. Something snaps in your brain, and you think it would be easier without the burden.”_

_“It's okay, Mr. Rogers, you can tell us. Your mother probably asked you to ease her suffering. We can get you a deal, but you need to tell us whether or not you turned off the oxygen machine.”_

_“Mr. Rogers, you're under arrest for the murder of Sarah Rogers.”_

_“We hereby find the defendant, Steve Rogers, not guilty on the charges of murder.”_

_“You're free to go, Mr. Rogers.”_

_“Go?” he shouted. “Go where? My ma is dead! I killed her when I went out for ride on my bike that night and didn't come home on time. Handcuff me. Put me in prison. I killed her. It's my fault. I should have been there!”_

_Father Patrick tried to console him by saying that suicide didn't necessarily damn a person to Hell, that mental illness and his ma's fight against cancer would mitigate the sin of final despair._

“Steve, are you all right? What happened?”

He came back to consciousness slowly, like clawing his way through molasses, only to find Miles crouched in front of him. They were behind the check-in desk, he realized, and he'd curled himself into the fetal position to somehow protect against the waking nightmare.

Huffing, he dragged both hands across his face to take away the snot and tears and said, “I'm fine.”

“No offense, dude, but you don't look fine. I called Dr. Banner. He's coming back from town.”

“You shouldn't have done that.”

“The Hell he shouldn't have,” Bruce said as he trundled into the office.

Steve attempted to collapse inward, arms wrapped around his knees. “Please, don't make me leave. I don't have anywhere else to go. I sold Ma's apartment. Couldn't stand being there with her things. Don't make me--”

“Nobody's making you leave, sweetheart,” Bruce said, a new softness in his voice. “What I'm doing is sending you back to your room so you can get some rest. You haven't been sleeping lately. I know. Betty's and my room is right beneath yours.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. Come on. We're getting up now.”

Steve stumbled to his feet with Bruce's help, one of his arms tucked beneath Steve's for leverage. By the time his head hit the pillow, he felt drained, sucked dry like an extra from Interview With a Vampire. Despite his exhaustion, he just couldn't rest.

*

Coffee didn't taste the same after his ma's death. At one point, he'd loved his morning ritual of getting up and using the quiet time before the nurses and home health aides started showing up to have a cup of coffee and catch up on Instagram. That had been his time, a few moments stolen from the day where he could be himself without worrying about whether Ma was in pain or had enough oxygen.

Standing on the deck the morning after his breakdown, a cup of coffee warming his palms, he chased that sense of peace only to watch it slip through his fingers. He couldn't find it because no one who'd killed their mother deserved peace. Or life. Or happiness.

That first gasp of crisp, winter air lodged in his throat like a ball of tar, so he settled his cup on the railing and hugged himself. There wasn't much comfort in the act of self-soothing.

Chill had worked deep into his bones when the sliding door opened. Bruce came to stand beside him, their shoulders touching, and once again, he experienced the sharp ache of nostalgia. He wanted to run his fingers through Bruce's hair, to press his nose into the man's neck and draw in his scent, to feel those hands that had comforted him when he'd been lost in a sea of unfamiliarity during his first semesters of college, long before his mother's death.

“I care about you.”

He stiffened. Any conversation that started with 'I care about you' surely couldn't be good. It was like the damning phrase 'we need to talk.'

“I care about you, and you can't go on like this. You're hiding.”

“No, I'm not.”

Bruce's jaw clenched. “You're hiding from the world because you don't think you deserve to live it.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Look me in the eye and say that.”

He tried. For fuck's sake, he tried, but his eyes shied from making contact with Bruce's. He couldn't lie to Bruce, never had been able to, and claiming that he wasn't running away from life was a lie.

“Drive Dopinder to the Stanley today.”

“Why me?” exclaimed Steve.

“Because Betty and I are taking Newton to a pediatric appointment, and Miles doesn't have his license yet. And before you ask, Enterprise can't make it out with a car. There's a convention in Loveland, and they're booked.”

“But--”

“No more hiding, Steve.”

Resignation slumped his shoulders when his ex-boyfriend used that tone of voice, the one that said argument was futile. Besides, wasn't that the reason he'd moved from Manhattan to Colorado? Or least one of the reasons. Aside from running from the ghost of his dead mother. He'd come to help run River Resort. That meant chauffeuring guests when necessary. Didn't mean he had to like it, though, but at least taking out his irritation on someone else wasn't his style. 

Dopinder was a raging ball of nerves when he got in the car, nerves and excitement, and Steve couldn't bring himself to put a damper on that excitement. Even if he thought this was a futile endeavor and Gita would never speak to him again after ruining her wedding.

Traffic was light heading into Estes Park. Most of the tourists had gone home for the season, leaving behind the hardy souls willing to brave mountain snow. It meant they pulled into the lot of the Stanley Hotel with plenty of time to spare and much grumbling over having to pay ten bucks to park in the hotel's parking lot.

Dopinder's enthusiasm wouldn't be curtailed. His face was liquid sunshine, a crown of stars, an angel's halo when he poured from the car. He was so high on the moment his feet barely touched the ground.

And Steve? Steve might as well have been wearing cement shoes. He would have waited in the car but for a pleading look from the maybe-groom-to-be. A chocolate lab puppy being kicked in the ribs would have been less compelling, and he found himself stepping outta the car and traipsing into the hotel to his doom. Surely that much optimism would finally end his suffering.

They waited outside the doors leading into MacGregor Ballroom until those iconic words, muffled by the distance, reached their ears. “If any one has just cause why these two people should not be married, let them speak now or forever hold their silence.”

Dopinder suffered a set of last-case nerves and twisted a handkerchief in his hands.

There was no way Steve drove all the way into Estes Park, paid ten bucks, and muscled himself outta the car only for his companion to back out now, so he yanked both sets of doors opened. He didn't need to gather his courage. Ma used to say Steve had cornered the market on courage. Besides, what did he have to lose? He'd already killed his ma and was only half-alive.

“This guy's got something to say about that,” he said, voice booming over the hush inside the ballroom.

“I--” The guy froze. Full on deer-in-headlights-froze. “That is--”

Gita, standing in front of the minister in a traditional red and gold sari, looked pointedly at Dopinder, expression full of shock and outrage. She opened her mouth to say something, but Steve cut her off.

“Now hold on before you get your panties in a bunch. Dopinder checked into the cabin resort I help operate last night, and there was only one thing he could take about: you. Claimed his heart stopped beating the moment you accepted a proposal from his cousin.

“Who does that? Who goes out with a guy only to dump him for his cousin? And you?” He jabbed a finger toward Bandhu. “You outta be ashamed of yourself for macking on your cousin's honey.”

Bandhu opened his mouth to speak.

“I'm not finished yet.” He planted both fists on his hips to emphasize his posture. “This guy is stupid crazy about you. Seriously, driving him here today felt like sitting inside the sun's corona. He's sunshine and flowers and all that sappy crap people in love blether on about.

“Now, you don't owe him nothing just 'cause he's in love with you. That's not how love works, and you gals get enough of that crap in your lives, feeling like you're forced to love a guy just 'cause he loves you, but I'm thinking maybe you've still got feelings for this guy.

“So why don't we all take a deep breath, let these fine people sit in this beautiful location for a little while, and you three have a chat, make sure everyone's doing what they feel's right. If nothing else, you're gonna give this guy the closure he needs to move on if you don't love him.”

Silence.

Dopinder clasped both hands in front of himself and turned up the mega-watt puppy look. “I'll love you all the days of my life. You'll be my queen, my goddess, my inspiration.”

*

Steve stood beside Dopinder next to the minister while he married Gita. Apparently, there had been this whole bucket of drama about how Dopinder hadn't been moving fast enough, and she'd gotten tired of waiting for him to propose so they could start a family. He'd lost track of the conversation by that point and had been startled when a certain big-eyed chocolate Labrador had dragged him in front of the minister to act as his best man.

So yeah, that had happened. The last time he saw the couple, they were in the midst of their first dance as a married unit, which was when Steve slipped out without being seen. 

He spent the remainder of the afternoon sitting on a bench overlooking the Big T, sketchbook open on his lap but feeling uninspired when it came to actually drawing anything. Love wasn't for ghosts, he kept reminding himself every time his thoughts drifted to Dopinder. It wasn't for people like him.

Thoughts turned to rich, sable hair, an adorable dimple in his chin, and eyes filled with mirth. He didn't think of Bucky often anymore, not after the first month when some part of him had yearned for his presence. Warmth came in the wake of remembering Bucky Barnes this time. They'd had a certain amount of chemistry during that one, lone day they'd spent together.

But chemistry wasn't enough. Chemistry didn't miraculously make Steve less of a murderer. It didn't change the fact that he'd driven everyone away who'd ever loved him: his ma when he went out that night, Bruce when the relationship had gotten too emotionally involved, Sam because Steve didn't handle ultimatums well and hadn't agreed to get help.

Laughter pulled his thoughts back to the present, and he glanced up. The last person he expected to see was Bucky himself, who was standing outside the Inkwell and Brew bundled up in a wool-lined bomber jacket and a big, droopy scarf. His arm slipped around the waist of a small brunette, and the pair walked in the opposite direction from Steve.

It was good. Bucky looked happy. He deserved to be happy.

*

“Could I have some extra towels in Fozzie Bear?”

He damn near clobbered himself on the nightstand he was scrubbing. The woman standing in the doorway of the cabin was vaguely familiar. Her brunette hair was cut in a bob, gray-blue eyes peering from dark lashes, and she had a dimple in her chin that reminded him of Bucky.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Extra towels. I checked in with a four year old, and keeping a toddler clean is a full time job.”

“Oh. Sure.”

Climbing to his feet, he stepped out onto the sidewalk outside Sugar Bear to grab a few towels from the cleaning cart. A kid sat astride one of the playground toys, the kind with an animal attached to a thick spring to allow the toy bob this way and that. The boy laughed as though it were the most thrilling thing in the world. Hell, maybe it was to a four year old.

“Here you go.” He pulled four extra towels from the stack and passed them over.

She hugged them against her chest and looked ready to leave when she spoke again. “You got any siblings, blondie?” Mist puffed from between her lips with each exhale.

“Can't say that I do.”

“Let me tell you, siblings are almost as exhausting as a toddler.”

He kind of wanted her to stop talking and go on her way, but saying so would be rude. Instead, he tried for an interested smile. “I'm sensing a story here.”

“My idiot brother is something of a thrill seeker. Skydiving, climbing Mount Everest, street racing, that sort of thing. Well, his latest adrenaline rush came from free-climbing Long's Peak. Without checking in with park rangers. Took them three days to find Bucky when he fell. Broke just about every bone in his goddamn body.”

His mind skipped right over what she was saying until hearing the name Bucky brought him to a screeching halt. His entire world froze.

“Bucky? Did you say Bucky?”

“Yeah, why?”

“God, I know him. Is he all right?”

“You know Bucky? Small fucking world. He's still in the hospital.”

“Wait, that means you're Bex?”

“Only Bucky calls me that. Becca.” She extended her hand.

Steve clasped it in his own for a quick shake. “Really, though, how bad is it?”

“We don't know yet. He's had two operations to repair bones in his ankle and his left arm. They needed to reinforce his arm with plates and screws.”

“God, I just saw him the other week. He was hanging out with his girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Yeah, brunette, short, cute. They were out at the Inkwell and Brew.”

“Bucky doesn't have girlfriends. He's gay. Well, he dated a couple of girls before figuring out women weren't really his thing in a romantic relationship. You probably saw him with Darcy. They've been friends for ages. He helps out at the I and B.”

“I-- Would it be okay if I visited him?”

“Sure! He'd like that. In fact, I'm taking Lief to see him this afternoon if you'd like to ride along.”

“Please, that would be great. My Harley isn't really built for this kind of weather.” He indicated the frost glazing tufts of grass and weeds.

“We're planning on leaving about one if you want to meet us by our cabin.”

*

Looking at Bucky hurt. The guy was laid out on some kind of special machine when they arrived while two hospital technicians discussed traction therapy for his herniated disc. He didn't really pay much attention to the techs, concentrating instead on the pain in Bucky's expression.

That was when the kid tore free from his mother and skipped into the room, crying, “Uncle Bucky!”

“Squirt!” Bucky's face lit up.

“Hey, be careful. What did we talk about last night?” Becca asked after darting inside and restraining her son from climbing onto the traction machine.

“To be careful not to climb on Uncle Bucky, 'cause he's a got a boo boo.”

“That's right. We have to be gentle with Uncle Bucky. He's an egg. We don't wanna break his shell, right? Seeing his yellow splatter on the ground would be gross, right?”

“Big gross,” Lief claimed. “Bleck.”

“How are you feeling, Bucky?” She put Lief on her hip and leaned down to kiss Bucky's forehead.

“Like a broken egg rotting in the heat.”

“I brought something that might cheer you up.” She moved a hand in Steve's direction.

Steve, warmth flooding his face, stepped inside just into Bucky's field of vision, and said, “Hey.”

“Steve,” he exclaimed. “You know, I'm still mad you didn't call. You can't just suck a guy off and not call the next morning to make sure neither of you regrets it.”

“Bucky! Child,” Becca cried.

“Sorry, sorry. Sometimes I forget Squirt isn't a thirty year old in a four year old body.”

“I didn't know...” Not knowing how to finish that statement, he allowed it to trail into silence. It wasn't like they'd been dating or anything. One night stands didn't normally require a phone call.

“It's fine. Forget I said anything. So how'd you and Bex meet?”

“She's staying at the resort.”

“Ah, Bex, I thought I told you to stay at my place. Gave you the key and everything.”

“Bucky, you're my brother, and I love you dearly, but I'm not staying at your place. Your place is a science experiment gone horribly wrong. There are unspeakable things growing in your bathtub.”

“Sorry I didn't call. Do you want me to go?” asked Steve.

“What? No, you just got here. They'll be taking me back to my regular room soon. We can talk more there, and I can explain the etiquette of dating.”

“We weren't dating.”

“I wanted to be.”

Anxiety made his head buzz with a nest of angry hornets. Bucky wanted to date. Steve couldn't. He couldn't reciprocate. A bell jangled next to his ear. In his mind, he said, “Coming, Ma.” Gasping. Someone was gasping. Wheezing breaths that whistled through constricted airways. Fuck, she wasn't getting enough oxygen. Her machine must have gotten plugged up again.

_Get up, run down the hall, see her wide eyes and labored breathing behind the mask, open the machine, clean out the passageways that allowed oxygen to flow into the mask, listen to her gasping. Gasping. Gasping. The jangle of her angel bell._

When he came to, he was crouched in a corner at the end of the hall, arms curled around his knees, and a sea of faces in front of him. They were nurses and doctors, all of them speaking at once, trying to get him to respond, crowding around him and cutting off escape.

“God-fucking-damn it, just let me go!”

“Sir, we need you to calm down.”

“Calm down? I'm not gonna fucking calm down. Just let me go. I need to go.” Panic roared back to the surface. There were too many people, and it reminded him too much of an apartment filled with paramedics and police officers, of people goading him, suggesting he'd deliberately turned off the oxygen machine, and fuck, he couldn't do this again.

“It shoulda been me. I shoulda died instead of her. Just let me go. I don't wanna be here.”

That was how Steve wound up in the psych ward on a seventy-two hour suicide watch. Because apparently talking about death in conjunction with wanting to escape equaled suicidal ideation. Suicide wasn't something he'd ever consciously thought about. Maybe it should have occurred to him earlier that he could end the half of him that was still living. It just hadn't.

*

Doctor Abraham Erskine was past his prime, with hair like spun silver and eyes showing the signs of a life well-lived. He was an unassuming man, one of those people who somehow took up more space than the breadth of their body. He was an iceberg, not because he was cold but because ninety percent of him wasn't visible to the naked eye.

Steve hated his guts.

“Steven, you won't get anything out of this if you don't talk to me.”

“I didn't want to be here to begin with.”

“Why's that?”

“Because if I stay here, if I talk to you, if I get treatment, it means I'll have to go on living.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I'm not stupid, Doctor Erskine. I'm pretty sure I've got manic depression, maybe PTSD with the way I'm having flashbacks of that night. I know I'm not mentally healthy, but what you people don't get is that I don't care. It's what I deserve.”

“Why do you think you deserve it?”

“Because she's dead, and I'm alive.”

“Your mother didn't die in a car accident. You weren't driving and didn't fall asleep at the wheel. This isn't the normal sort of survivor's guilt.”

“She died because I left her alone! If I'd been there that night, she wouldn't have-- Fuck.” He sat forward and rested elbows against knees in order to bury fingers in his hair. Pulling on his scalp stung, sent bolts of pain racing through his nerves, gave him something to focus on but the sucking guilt.

“Your mother made a choice to end her own suffering. If she hadn't done it that night, she would have done it when you went to the grocery store.”

“But I wasn't at the grocery store. I was out having sex.”

“You deserved to have a life of your own that didn't revolve around your mother's illness. People who are full-time caretakers need as much support as those in hospice.”

“You're a liar, and I'm not listening to a word you say.”

And he didn't. He refused to speak for the rest of their session, spent the time staring out the window into the parking lot. There were geese statues scattered around the hospital grounds. Fox deterrents, they were called. Because apparently foxes were terrified of geese. Actually, that wasn't very far-fetched. Geese could be terrifying.

After the session, he intended on going back to his room only to stop in the common area when he caught sight of Bruce sitting in the visiting area. He changed course and flopped into a chair across the table from his ex.

“I know, I know. You didn't ask me to come all the way to Colorado just for me to get myself thrown in the psych ward and leave you holding the bag at the resort.”

Bruce hummed before saying, “Actually, I think you're where you need to be.”

He stared across the table.

“I thought maybe a new environment would help you learn to move on. It hasn't, though, so maybe psychological help, therapy, will succeed where I failed.”

“You didn't fail.”

“That's true. Your mental health isn't my responsibility. How are things going?”

“I hate my therapist.”

A muscle in Bruce's jaw twitched. “And why's that?”

“God, I think I've had my fill of questions today, thanks.”

Bruce huffed, an angry sort of sound that indicated he was reaching the end of his patience. “So you intend to let this opportunity to slip through your fingers, too.”

“What?”

“Your friends have tried to help you,” he spat. “Tony, Sam, Natasha, me. But you won't take our help. You won't even try. Supporting you through your trauma is one thing, but if you aren't even going to try... If we're going to watch you slip away and become the ghost you claim to be, then what's the point? I have a family. Betty and Newton need my attention, too.”

“Hey, I didn't ask you--”

“Yes, you did! You asked us to care about you when we became friends. If you turn your back on us now, then don't expect us to keep beating our collective heads against a wall. That's what you're doing. You're turning your back on us. You're hurting us just to hurt yourself. So you can fuck right off with your self-righteous bullshit, Steven Rogers.

“Get help. Learn to live again. Learn to forgive yourself for whatever wrongs you think you've committed. There's only so long we'll continue braining ourselves before we self-protect.”

He swallowed the retort perched on the tip of his tongue. But it would mean letting go of the last vestige of his ma. If he forgot his guilt, maybe he would forget her.

*

Someone at the hospital helped him sign up for the Affordable Care Act. He didn't really receive much of a salary at the River Resort, and commissions for his artwork only brought in a few thousand a year, so he qualified for medicaid.

They released him after seventy-two hours, and he went home, got back into the routine of running the resort, of making breakfast, cleaning, checking guests in and out. And it was okay for a while. He kept busy enough not to think about anything until his insurance cards arrived in the mail.

Thank God his new insurance covered the hospital bill from his stay in the psych ward. He didn't know what he would have done if he'd been slapped with tens of thousands of dollars of bills, especially considering he hadn't consented to be there. Probably would have been something drastic that included mailing the bills back to the hospital with a sarcastic note saying “you forced it, you pay it.”

The first thing he did with his new insurance was make an appointment with a primary care physician. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been to a doctor, probably after his asthma had cleared up and his immune system had finally decided to work right when puberty hit. The doctor, Helen Cho, performed a physical. He was underweight for his height and dehydrated but otherwise in fine health.

What he really needed from her, though, was a referral to a psychologist. He got set up with Doctor Erskine as an outpatient, and the first time they saw each other's faces, they both groaned in dread.

It was a good thing Erskine was a stubborn old bastard because learning new behavioral patterns was damned had, and Steve had this awful tendency to drag his feet and kick and scream like a five year old when it came to putting in the effort to better his mental health.

They continued to hate each other until they both developed a grudging respect, and things got better. It happened at a glacial pace, and he didn't really recognize what was going on until one day he opened a bottle of cleaner and didn't get sucked into a vortex of memories. Later that same day, he stood outside the long hallway leading back to the gym room without hearing Ma's cherub bell.

There were still bad days, of course. Treating depression and grief wasn't like snapping a bone back into place. There were days he still felt like a ghost and days where he hated the world and turned waspish to anyone in the vicinity. By that point, though, Bruce and Miles knew when to give him the space he needed.

Then one day, Miles came into work bruised up with a fat lip and a swollen eye, and Steve realized that somewhere along the way, he'd made a connection with the kid. Concern rocked him on his heels.

“What happened to you?”

“Went to a protest against some white nationalist douche-balloon who wants to speak at the university.”

“I didn't know you attended the university.”

“Dude, what planet you been living on?”

“Pluto, apparently. Or is Pluto not considered a planet anymore? I never keep up with that crap.”

Miles laughed. “Rogers, you are so oblivious sometimes. It's almost painful.”

Steve shrugged but didn't fight the smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

*

Spring bled into summer, his second at River Resort, and with summer came the tourists. They were booked solid, and he spent most of the time feeling like a chicken with its head cut off. Working retail was-- Well, he wanted to become president and use his executive power to make a law saying all people should have to work retail at least once in their life.

The office was swamped. Kids screeched like banshees, and someone's yappy little dog needed volume control. Seriously. He would never suggest that animals should be abused, but that little bastard needed to have his vocal cords cut.

“What is taking so long?” one woman whined. “We've been waiting for hours now for breakfast.”

“The stove, ma'am,” Steve retorted. “The stove is taking so long. You see, it has to do this thing where it heats the skillet, and that cooks the eggs inside, and you haven't been waiting hours. You've been here for, like, five minutes.”

More shrill barking.

It only got worse when Bruce rushed over to the buffet from check-in. Newton hated the smell of cooking bacon, so bringing him closer to the buffet area meant he squalled until his eyes were red and his face puffy from crying.

“Maybe if you weren't so lazy, you could have breakfast on the warmers at the time listed on your sign.” Her voice trailed off into muttering about how good service was impossible to find.

And Steve just lost it.

“Listen, jerk, my hands, the eggs, the stove, the skillet, we're all working as fast as we can. So if you'd like to sit down and stop heckling me like I'm one of those clowns you throw tomatoes at, that would be great. And take your dog outside until it learns to behave itself!”

Silence filled the interior of the office.

Somewhere, someone started a slow clap. Next thing he knew, most of the occupants were clapping in thunderous applause, all except the woman's overwrought husband, who hid his face behind his hands like he wanted to be anywhere but at River Resort.

“Well, I never,” she gasped before stomping outside.

“Don't forget to leave us a bad review on Yelp!” he called after her. “Overworked sous chef goes off on entitled jerk who can't control her children or her dog.”

A smattering of laughter worked its way through the office. Thankfully, that was when Miles turned up for work, apologizing profusely. His car ran outta gas on the way in, and he had to hitchhike to the nearest exit with a really weird preacher who he suspected was involved in a new Heaven's Gate cult.

Once Miles was there, Bruce kicked Steve outta the office and sent him off to start prepping to clean the cabins of their out-goings. That part of the job was much less stressful. Sure, people stole shit off his cart while he wasn't looking. He'd once had a woman take every towel available back to her room. He'd found them later covered in mud from where she'd shampooed her dog. But at least he wasn't dealing directly with the public where his mouth had a tendency to get away from him.

*

His Harley rumbled beneath him as he sped down Route 34 toward Estes Park. He passed the Bear Den (still not a gay bar) and the Beaver Den (still not a lesbian bar) and pulled off on the shoulder to watch a family of Bighorn sheep frolic near the edge of a cliff. The ewes and rams kept a watchful eye on their young between mouthfuls of whatever scrub brush they could find amidst the rock.

Removing his helmet, he fished through his saddlebags for his camera and snapped several pictures. Fresh mountain air ruffled the long hair on his forehead, and he could hear the rumble of the Big T as water cascaded down out of the mountains, carried over rocks that had been worn smooth from erosion. Between the sheep, and the air, and the river, things, and sights, and sounds he never would have experienced in New York, he allowed himself to drift away for a moment.

His situation had changed during the year he'd lived in Colorado. Sure, he was still the same, prickly prick who'd shown up on Bruce's door step, but time and distance from the things he'd left behind in New York had given him a new perspective on the world around him. He experienced the fresh air. He heard the roar of the river. He saw the Bighorn sheep. He wasn't a ghost living in a world of gray.

Smiling, he got back on the road and didn't stop until he turned into the parking lot of Epic Climbing Gym. Hobbies were an important part of his therapy. They kept him occupied and used up some of the excessive energy storming through his big body. Photography and climbing happened to be two new activities he'd picked up on Doctor Erskine's suggestion.

The last thing he expected upon stepping inside was to see Bucky wearing a harness. It looked like he'd just come down the wall and was stretching his left arm, the one that had been so badly broken during his fall over the winter.

Their eyes met, and they stared at each other in shock.

“No,” Bucky exclaimed.

“No what?”

“Last time I saw you, you freaked out when I suggested commitment and ran screaming from my hospital room. So no. I do not want to talk to you, and I will not belay for you.”

Steve threw his hands in the air. “I understand. Things haven't been-- I'm sorry about before. I don't expect anything from you and understand what a jerk I was.”

Bucky huffed. “Holy shit, did you learn to change your tune or something?”

He shrugged. “A few things have happened since the hospital.”

“Huh.”

He brushed past Bucky to walk to the counter, content to ignore Bucky as Bucky seemed inclined to ignore him after their brief exchange. Steve rented a harness and climbing shoes and got himself kitted out before approaching the wall, asking an employee to belay for him. He hanged a pouch of chalk from his belt, chalked his hands, and reached up to grab a hand-hold. 

The vertical ascent wasn't the hard part. He'd learned how to support himself in a rest position to give his hands and toes a break when they needed them. No, the hard part was the roof climb. A section of rock jutted out over the main wall, forcing him to cling like a spider crawling across the ceiling.

He allowed himself to suspend from his fingers for a moment while looking for his next handhold, shaking out his right hand to bring circulation back to his fingers.

“Upper right quadrant,” Bucky called from the floor. “You're doing great. Just make sure to pace yourself well.”

The handhold was hidden behind a bit of rock, so he didn't see it until Bucky called it out. A quick lunge brought him in contact with the hold, and from there, it was instinct to let Bucky talk him through the path. It was the first time he'd managed the roof climb without needing the person on belay to take some of his body weight for him.

Once he reached the top, he rappelled back to the ground, surprised to find Bucky holding the belay line. A tiny smile curved Steve's lips. “Thought you weren't gonna belay for me.”

“Yeah, well, I didn't want to see you crack your skull open or clean up your brains.”

*

“One outta ten, how much does Becca hate me?”

“Thirteen?”

Both men sat shoulder to shoulder on a bench squashed between the sculpture of a crouching puma and a row of shops. A tree overhead provided plenty of shade to protect them from the scorching sun. Maybe their milkshakes wouldn't melt in point three seconds.

“Nah, it's not like that,” Bucky continued. “Becca doesn't hate anybody. When she doesn't care for them, they become less than nothing in her regard. She doesn't care one way or another. You're sitting firmly in that position.”

He cringed. “Look, Buck, I didn't--”

One of Bucky's hands squeezed his wrist, and he said, “We didn't promise each other nothing. Sure, I was disappointed when you didn't call, but it's not like you walked out on a five year plan or nothing. Seems like you've been dealing with--”

Steve blurted out, “I was out having sex the night my mother killed herself.”

Beat.

“Thought your ma died of pancreatic cancer.”

“Well, it was working on killing her.” He swirled his straw around inside the thick milkshake. “She just got to it first, you know. Wanted to die with dignity or something, so she turned off her oxygen machine. By the time I got back, she was dead.”

Bucky turned until he was facing Steve, milkshake tucked between his palms, the left one shaking.

“You're not obligated to listen to me whine.”

“You're not obligated to tell me.”

So Steve told him, told him everything without the benefit of weed loosening his tongue. All about how he still felt responsible for her suicide but was getting better at saying “My ma committed suicide” aloud instead of claiming ownership of the event. He told him all about feeling like a ghost, about detaching from life and floating through his existence since then and about how the hospital had made him get help. He still didn't think he'd threatened suicide that day, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that it had been the kick in the pants necessary to finally let someone in.

Something wet trickled down his face. He didn't realize he was crying until Bucky brushed away a drop with his thumb. It wasn't the ugly sort of cry where desperate sobs drowned out the rest of his surroundings; it was only the silent trickle of tears as his mind and body finally acclimated to the grief.

“Can we maybe start again?” he asked when everything had drained away. “I'd really like to get to know you better. Maybe not walk out on you this time.”

Bucky had one of those big, mega-watt smiles that crinkled his eyes and proved infectious. Grinning, he stuck his hand out. “Hi, Bucky Barnes. I work part time at a pot dispensary and coffee shop-turned-stationary store. I got a dog who sheds everywhere and makes a habit of slobbering over everything I own. My apartment's a mess 'cause I can't be bothered to clean very much. I enjoy rock climbing, adrenaline sports, and drinking milkshakes that are bigger than my head.”

Steve clasped Bucky's hand. “Hi, I'm Steve Rogers. I work at a cabin resort cleaning cabins, cooking, and yelling at entitled customers. Probably got more bad Yelp reviews than good ones 'cause of me, but people shouldn't be allowed to get away with talking to other humans like they're trash. Right. Tangent. I go off on random tangents when things piss me off. I'm terrible with commitment but am working on it, and I live with my ex-boyfriend.”

“Sounds like a match made in Hell,” Bucky said with that stupidly beautiful smile.

*

Okay, so Bucky's apartment was every bit as bad as Becca had insinuated. The first time Steve stepped inside, this look of abject horror crept onto his face. His boyfriend had recreated the Leaning Tower of Pisa with empty pizza boxes. Dog fur covered everything. Dirty dishes spilled outta the sink onto the surrounding counter, and since it was just a one room efficiency, he could see the mattress, sans sheets, sitting right on the floor.

Then a pile of fur moved.

“Oh God.” Steve blanched. “Bucky when you said you had a dog, you didn't say it moonlighted as a horse! What is that thing? And can you send it back to the Hell from whence it spawned?”

Bucky burst into laughter.

The mountain of fur lifted its head from the mattress, perking up upon realizing its owner was home, and hefted all two hundred pounds of Tibetan Mastiff to its massive paws. It was like being bum-rushed by an entire NFL defensive line. Steve searched for a place to hide but came up lacking.

Then they were being bowled over and knocked onto their backsides by said Tibetan Mastiff. By the time the dog (horse)... (horse-dog?) was satisfied, Steve's hair stood on end from the aggressive licking, and he swore he would never feel clean again.

Actually, the dog smelled like shampoo. Its fur was smooth and silky, which came as a surprise given the state of Bucky's apartment. He apparently took much better care of his dog than his own environment. That was admirable. Steve wouldn't have to call the ASPCA to stage an intervention.

“Buck, I love spending time with you, but when we have sleep-overs, can we please do it at my place?”

“You live with your ex-boyfriend! Are we really gonna have sex right above his bedroom.”

“Yes. Yes, we are. We are not having sex here. Something might crawl up my anus and grow into the next super-plague that sweeps around the world leaving zombies in its wake.”

“Zombies?” Bucky cracked up laughing.

Once their laughter died down, he said, “So this is--”

“If you tell me that horse's name is penis, pothead, or Mary Jane, we're breaking up.”

More laughter poured from Bucky, enough he had to hug himself in an effort to hold his insides together. “Those are all great ideas, but no. His name is Paco.”

“Let me get this straight. You named your Tibetan dog the Spanish nickname for Francisco.”

“Yep.”

“There's a story there.”

“Absolutely.”

While on a camping trip, Bucky and some friends had encountered a wood statue that had been painstakingly (with a chainsaw) carved into the visage of a South American mask. Included with the carving was a removable pipe the artist had stuffed with leaves. And that was why Bucky and his friends had named the statue “Paco: Man in Contemplation Smoking Pot.”

Later on, they'd found a helpless puppy who'd either been abandoned on the side of the road or had become lost, so they'd taken the puppy back to their campsite where it had spent the night huddled against Paco for warmth. That was how a Tibetan Mastiff had received a Spanish name.

Steve hated Paco with the intensity of a thousand suns, not because he hated dogs but because Paco developed an instant and profoundly disturbing love for his shoes. No sooner had he removed them (although why he wanted to risk tetanus by walking through Bucky's apartment in his socked feet was a mystery) than the horse-dog made off with them, hiding them somewhere under a pile of dirty clothes.

By the time he found them again, it was past midnight and Bucky's insistence that it was dangerous to ride a Harley over winding, mountain roads at night sounded more logical than fanciful.

“Okay! But Horse is not sleeping in bed with us. I will not wake up with fur stuffed in every orifice of my body because your equine monstrosity doesn't know how to restrain himself.”

He woke up the next morning at the bottom of a dog pile that included Paco and Bucky. It took him a week to get the phantom smell of dog out of his nostrils.

*

“Steve.” Bucky's voice emanated from the corner where he was at least pretending to put together the new bed frame they'd bought. “Stevie, you don't gotta do that.”

Steve rose from his crouch and leaned against the bathroom doorjamb, mouth and nose protected by the kind of face mask more often seen in a surgical ward. Both hands sported yellow rubber gloves, and he'd donned an apron earlier to keep his clothes from getting stained.

“What?”

“I said you don't gotta do that, sugar pie.”

“Yes, yes, I do,” he responded.

The thing he pulled out of the shower drain looked more like a science experiment gone horribly wrong than anything one would expect to find in a human home. It was thick and black and smelled of human waste, and the only reason he didn't throw up was because he'd acclimated to disgusting things while taking care of his ma. The things a dying human body could produce were terrifying.

“Don't be like that, sugar pie. I almost got the bed put together. Leave that for later, and we can get high and christen the new mattress.”

“The reason your shower drain is in the first stages of labor and giving birth to the antichrist is because you always leave for later things you should be doing now, sugar plum.”

“Ah, man, you're not being fun today.”

“You know what's fun? Not standing ankle-deep in your own filth because your drain drains too slow. Pretty sure a snail can slither to California in the time it takes your dirty bathwater to empty.”

“Do snails slither?”

“You know what, I don't know.”

“Google!” they cried in unison.

*

The new bed didn't even squeak, and the sheets and pillowcases smelled like clean linen and were blessedly free of dog hair, something Steve reveled in when he pressed his face into the pillow to muffle the breathy moan that escaped. One hand flew behind him to claw at Bucky's bare hip.

“Just like that, sugar plum,” he gasped when a particularly hard thrust drove the cock inside him directly into his prostate. “Fuck, do that again.”

He braced his other hand against the headboard and rode the waves of pleasure, but just as he balanced on the razor edge between pleasure and ecstasy, a giant ball of fur leaped onto the bed.

“Paco!” they cried in unison.

*

The fall afternoon was crisp and clear when he keyed into Bucky's apartment. Something croaked from the bed, tufts of sable hair peeking out from beneath a mound of blankets. Paco lifted his head from Bucky's hip with interest but almost immediately went back to moping over his owner's sorry state.

“You not feeling any better?”

“No,” croaked Bucky. “Don't come near me; I have the plague.”

Steve dumped his helmet on the new stand beside the front door. He carried a brown paper bag to the kitchen island before approaching the bed. His poor boyfriend wheezed, air whistling through heavy congestion. And Steve? Steve knew what to do here.

After placing his hand against Bucky's forehead and finding him feverish but not dangerously so, he started divesting Bucky of his cocoon, much to his boyfriend's protesting.

“Come on, Buck. You gotta sit up. I'm gonna make a steam tent. That should help your breathing. Then you're gonna eat some hot chicken noodle soup, and if you've got any energy left, we're taking a shower together.”

Bucky waggled his eyebrows halfheartedly, his lecherous grin a shadow of its usual self.

“Not that kinda shower, you dork. You probably couldn't stand up long enough for that right now.”

“After, can you take Paco out. He hasn't been out all day. Pretty sure his eyes are turning yellow from holding it. He goes much longer, he's gonna bust.”

“Sure, I'll take Horse for a walk as long as you cooperate with me taking care of you.”

Bucky was the worst patient in the history of patients, as it turned out. The simple act of sitting on the side of the bed with his head over a bowl of steaming water and a towel draped over him to form a tent left him whining. Either he was whining about sitting up or he was whining about snot dripping out of his nose, which was the entire point of the exercise. They had to get all that nastiness flowing to get it out of his lungs and head.

He was even worse eating his soup, and Steve nearly face-palmed when Bucky demanded to be spoon fed like a four year old instead of a grown man. Deep down, though, Steve liked taking care of his boyfriend. He liked feeling needed. A natural caretaker, Ma had once called him.

Taking Paco for a walk was the least interesting part of his day. The horse-dog was well-trained and didn't yank on the leash or attempt to chase cars through the complex parking lot. Unfortunately, it also meant he took for-freaking-ever choosing a spot to do his business, and while Colorado wasn't as cold as one might expect, it was still frigid.

“Just pick somewhere and squat, Horse--”

Sirens interrupted his comment. An ambulance and police car screeched past the apartment complex, and he squeezed his eyes closed when memories of that awful day returned, police banging on the door, paramedics trundling inside, questions bombarding him while his--

A wet tongue laved his face. Because he wasn't in New York. He was in Colorado outside his boyfriend's apartment. He tangled both arms around Paco and buried his face in the dog's thick fur. Somehow, it helped. It grounded him, kept him rooted firmly in the present.

“She's gone,” he murmured into Paco's fur. “She's in a better place, but that doesn't mean I gotta stop living, too. That's what Doctor Erskine's always saying.”

Paco woofed and went back to licking his face.

“Yeah, I guess you're all right, buddy. I think I'm falling for your daddy. That okay with you?”

Another woof boomed in the quiet parking lot.

*

Steve opened the sliding glass door and stepped onto the deck with a cup of coffee warming his palms. He propped a hip against the railing and inhaled deeply. The fresh, mountain air soothed his lungs. The taste of bitter coffee comforted him.

Footsteps followed him into the deck, and Bucky wrapped his arms around him.

“Think Bruce is gonna kill us for last night?”

He smiled.

“Yes,” Bruce shouted from the open window of his bedroom, “Bruce is definitely gonna kill you!”

“You know what they say, Brucie. If the bed frame's a-rockin' don't come a-knockin'!”


End file.
